


Above the Rain and Roses

by fromthebeginningthen



Series: I Am to See to it That I Do Not Lose You [2]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual William Schofield, Declarations Of Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Gay Tom Blake, Getting Together, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reunions, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25870945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthebeginningthen/pseuds/fromthebeginningthen
Summary: After Tom Blake survives getting stabbed, he's briefly reunited with Will Schofield, only to be torn apart again by circumstance. This is the story of how they hold on, and how they reunite for good.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: I Am to See to it That I Do Not Lose You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877314
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my betas [Jamie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigbidumbass/pseuds/bigbidumbass/works?fandom_id=38280694) and [Wally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milothatches/pseuds/Milothatches/works?fandom_id=38280694), I'm forever in your debt and you really helped me improve this story to something I could really be proud of!
> 
> And another special thank you to my friend [Susan](https://twitter.com/astrovhen/status/1292478054959329281?s=20) who created the custom page divider I commissioned!
> 
> Additional thanks to everyone in the 2nd Devons server who encouraged me and inspired me over the last few months, this story wouldn't exist without all of you lovely people!
> 
> This sequel originally was supposed to be a 2k word addition to part 1, and you see what kind of colossal accident happened instead. The Blakefield demon really got me this time, what can I say? I hope you enjoy the story <3
> 
> Lastly, you don't need to read part 1 to understand this! You just need to know the German Pilot stabbed Blake in the leg instead, and the convoy arrived earlier so he lived! Part 1 is Schofield witnessing the stabbing and carrying on the mission on his own.
> 
> One of the tags I didn't feel completely fits for this story is Period-Typical Homophobia. While it exists in this canon era, in my story, Will and Tom only ever run into allies so they don't personally deal with it even though you see them have some anxiety around it.

“Just like you, but a little older,” Schofield was saying, about Blake’s brother.

Blake forced himself to smile up at his friend before loosening his grip on Schofield’s hand. That hand was a lifeline to him- he was terrified and in so much pain that every beat of his heart brought another wave of agony crashing through his body. “See? It’s okay now.”

He needed Scho to be reassured, to carry on their mission like nothing had gone terribly wrong. He needed Schofield to deliver the message and save his brother. And he desperately needed Schofield to survive it and come back to him. There was too much between them unsaid.

Still, letting Scho carry on without him hurt more than the hole in his leg.

Scho squeezed his hand one last time before walking away. He had a determined set to his face, and Blake was reminded that this man had fought in the Somme and come out the other side mostly unscathed. He was a good soldier.

The rest of Blake’s strength left along with Scho. As soon as the man was out of his sight, he couldn’t hold back the sobs that were caught in his throat anymore. He cried for the pain. He cried for the death he feared, of his brother, the man he loved, and himself. And he cried for having been chosen for this mission.

It was hard for the medic to watch. The men he treated were younger and younger each time. Mere boys. So he did the only thing he could. He double checked that the bleeding was under control and gave the boy a dose of morphine, enough to settle him into sleep. It was going to be a long journey to the hospital, and the unstable motion of the truck would have been hell on a lucid patient.

At least this one would make it if infection didn’t set in. Other boys weren’t so lucky, and the medic could only offer them morphine to make their passing as peaceful as possible. He wasn’t supposed to “waste” resources like that. But he couldn’t bear not to.

* * *

Blake woke slowly as the veil of morphine began to recede. The first thing he was aware of was the throbbing pain in his thigh. It felt as if he’d been stabbed. Hah. He had.

“Lance Corporal?”

Blake struggled to open his eyes, the lids heavy with sleep. He must have made some type of noise to indicate he’d woken up.

“Sir? Can you try to wake up for me? We need to make sure you haven’t lost too much blood. Trust me, you do not want a blood transfusion.”

Blake raised his hands to his face to rub life into it. Finally he was able to keep his eyes open and he looked warily around the room. It looked like a rather expensive estate, except it was filled with hospital beds and equipment instead of normal furniture.

As his awareness increased, so did his level of pain. The throbbing in his leg and the smell of chemical cleaners and sweat overwhelmed his senses in a sickly combination. The moaning coming from a soldier across the room reflected his own mood.

“Good,” said the same voice as before. “I’m going to take your pulse and ask you a few questions.”

Blake looked to his side and saw a nurse standing next to his bed. Understanding finally reached him and he lifted the edge of the blanket. His trousers, puttes, and boots had been removed, which let him see the clean bandage wrapped around his leg.

The sight caused a bit of relief and loosened the knot in his stomach ever so slightly. He lowered the blanket and gave his full attention to the nurse. Granted, it wasn’t his _full_ attention because he still felt as if things were a dream. But he tried.

The nurse was short and stout with rounded features. Blake blinked hard for a moment as he thought he recognized his mum.

The nurse introduced herself as Jane then placed her fingers on Blake’s wrist and silently counted the beats of his pulse until she seemed satisfied and wrote something down on the packet of papers she carried in her other hand. Then she asked, “What’s your name?”

“Thomas Blake.”

She pointed toward Blake’s leg. “Do you remember what happened?”

Blake grimaced. He was embarrassed about having to admit it though. “Yes, there was a German pilot. He crashed near us and I wanted to- we pulled him out of the burning plane because I wanted to save him. But he stabbed me.”

“Well that was stupid, isn’t that what the Bosche do?” She crossed her arms.

Blake felt heat rush to his cheeks. He knew it was stupid, but he only did what he hoped someone else would do for him. He would have been grateful, not vengeful, had someone saved him.

“Oh,” Jane interrupted his thoughts. “You’ve passed the test. If you’ve got enough blood for a blush then you’ve got enough to recover.”

Blake could hear the mirth in her voice and evaded her gaze. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long have I been here?”

“You’ve only just come in a couple hours ago,” she said. “Got somewhere you need to be?”

Blake gripped the edge of the blanket to steady himself. “I had orders to deliver a message to the 2nd Devons with another soldier. He had to continue on without me. Is there any way I can get in contact with them to make sure it was delivered?”

Jane looked apologetic. “Not for a few days at least. You’d have to send a letter.”

Blake tried to keep his breathing even and said, “You don’t understand. If that message isn’t delivered then there won’t be any Devons left to exchange letters with. They’re walking into a trap, and the letter needs to be delivered before dawn.”

A muted horror crossed Jane’s face, but the two of them were effectively trapped here. Another truck wasn’t supposed to come by until the next scheduled supply run or the transport of new wounded soldiers.

“I’m sorry,” she said helplessly, “But we can hope that your partner made it safely.”

Blake swallowed tightly and he stared hard at the loud pattern of wallpaper across the room. His bottom lip trembled so he clenched his jaw tight in the hope of stopping any more tears. He refused to grieve anymore, not when there was still a chance that Scho made it.

The wait in the hospital was unbearable. He’d managed to fall asleep for a few hours during the night, but his anxiety was stronger than his exhaustion. It soon pulled him awake with a start from dreams of violence and death.

He spent the next several hours watching the sun rise through a window on one side of the room. He dutifully ate the rations brought to him by the nurse, but he didn’t engage in any conversation.

Jane tried, but it didn’t take long for her to realize Blake was reticent.

He got used to the sounds of the other wounded soldiers in the room. They shouted in their sleep and moaned in pain. The soft hushing of the night nurses followed the loudest of pained sounds, but it wasn’t enough. They were riddled with fever from infection and had little relief in the ways of modern medicine. Blake tried to ignore the fact that he was in this room because the doctor expected him to come down with infection too.

The wound was still rather new, but it didn’t redden or start leaking pus like he’d seen happen to others in the trenches. So he hoped he was in God’s good graces for once.

Morning turned to noon, and noon turned to evening. At least the food was marginally better here, where it could be cooked in a proper kitchen. It was served fresh and still steaming, unlike the old stews they usually served in the trenches. There were even real biscuits here instead of hardtack.

Blake wanted to pace the room, but he knew he was in no position to walk yet. He couldn’t believe it had only been a day, for he felt every single second that passed slowly on the clock.

As the last of the sun’s light left the room, someone walked in and let the door fall shut behind them. It was a soldier, but with his kit and helmet missing. He wrung his hands together and stared hard in the direction of each bed. Blake immediately recognized him, unless infection had taken over suddenly and he was hallucinating.

“Scho?” he called out.

The man quickly turned, and Blake smiled in relief. He was so very confused, but his heart was caught in his throat too. He couldn’t speak, just watched as Scho’s shoulders relaxed and he marched forward. He grabbed the fabric of Blake’s shirt and pulled him into a desperate hug.

Blake let out a laugh strangled with tears as he hugged Scho back, and wound his arms tight around his friend as he breathed him in. Here in his arms, alive, and smelling of mildew and burnt gunpowder.

Scho retreated just enough to look into his eyes, and that gaze pinned him. It was close, so close he could count the freckles on his face if he wanted to and see all the shades of blue and gray. Those eyes welled with tears as Blake felt a hand cradle his face. Softly, so softly.

Scho said, “Never do that again.”

Blake huffed and said, “Get stabbed? Yeah I don’t reckon I’ll go for round two.” He grimaced at the memory, but the sting of it was eased by the gentle motion of Scho’s thumb across his cheekbone.

Scho’s brows furrowed. “You don’t understand. Tom, if you died I would-”

Hearing his first name out of Will’s mouth was like getting a taste of fresh water after weeks of petrol stained drinks. Blake couldn’t speak above a whisper, “Would have what?”

“I would have died too,” he said.

Blake closed his eyes and let out a watery laugh as he reached up to hold Scho’s hand tight to his face. He knew exactly how Scho felt. He didn’t think he’d be able to go on if Scho died and the thought paralyzed him for the last 24 hours.

Then lips pressed against Blake’s and he whimpered as he leaned into it. He deepened the kiss and it was like coming home. He wasn’t out somewhere in France in the middle of a war. He was amongst the fields at his family’s farm, and what he wouldn’t give to see Will in that place.

Will pulled back after a final lingering kiss and Blake opened his eyes as they beamed at each other.

“ _Ahem_.”

The sound of someone’s throat clearing caused the two to jump apart. Or in Blake’s case, he bumped his head on the wall as he leaned back and Schofield tripped over his own feet as he stood up and tried backing away.

Blake was about ready to have a heart attack and come up with an excuse as to why he was kissing his very male soldier when the nurse, Jane, who interrupted them spoke first.

“Oh, calm down, I’m just here to check his stitches. But I advise you two to be more cautious- not everyone is going to care as little as me, yeah?”

Blake just gaped at her like a fish out of water, while Schofield choked out a strangled, “Yes, ma’am.”

Blake kept still as Jane moved the blanket and undid the bandaging around his thigh. She spoke as she worked.

“I take it this is your partner, the one who was supposed to deliver the message?”

Blake managed to nod, but his thoughts were all over the place. This was far too close and things could have ended very badly for them. He glanced at Scho and could see him just standing frozen in the middle of the room. He wouldn’t meet Blake’s gaze.

Blake could feel his heart in his throat as Jane finished up and told Schofield to go downstairs to be triaged.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that wound on the back of your head, young man!”

The door closed behind her and they were alone once more.

Blake tried to speak but nothing came out. He cleared his throat a couple times then said, “Do you...do you regret this?” And he motioned between them.

Scho finally faced him and breathed out. “Of course not, Tom. I could never regret you.” He came over to sit on the bed, taking both of Blake’s hands in his. “But I am scared for you. We need to be more careful. I don’t want this to end just because we couldn’t keep our wits about us.”

Will’s words eased the weight in Blake’s chest, and he kissed him one more time.

“And Tom, your brother, he’s alive.” Will let out a soft laugh, “And you’re right, he does look like you.”

Blake leaned back and melted into the bed. “Fucking hell.” He was so distracted, he couldn’t believe it wasn’t the first thing he asked. He felt a bit guilty about that. But he resigned himself to asking about it later, after his friend’s wounds were taken care of.

Except the word _friend_ wasn’t encompassing enough for what they were. They were friends first of course, but it extended beyond that now. And maybe it always had.

Some time later, Jane re-entered the room with Schofield in tow. She was carrying a pile of fresh sheets and started setting up the free bed that was to Blake’s right.

“What-”

The nurse cut Blake off. “He’s got a bit of fever, I think that wound on his hand is infected.”

That’s right. Blake had forgotten that Scho accidentally dragged an open wound through a German’s dead bloated body. It had to be crawling with bacteria, not properly washed away by water from his canteen. And any soldier knew it was almost as good as a death sentence.

The pain Blake had seen in the other soldiers, their fevers, their lives slipping away, that was going to be Scho too. He couldn’t speak, just watched as the bed was made and Schofield laid down in it. There was already a sheen of sweat across his forehead and his cheeks were pink. It came on so fast, Blake hadn’t noticed any of that when Scho’s face was close to his earlier. But, he was also fairly distracted at the time.

The nurse left him alone to change into his underclothes, while she went to fetch him some water and rations. It was important for him to rebuild his strength before the fever took over and he couldn’t hold much food down anymore.

Blake cursed their fate. They survived death, only to be greeted with-

He couldn’t let himself think about it. Will _had_ to pull through. There were no other options. There was no Blake without Schofield and vice versa. And they had just gotten back together. It was cruel, the universe.

Blake stared as Scho got on top of the covers in his shirt and pants. The rest of his uniform was folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Blake huffed. Of course it was. Scho would need to lose both arms before he decided not to keep things organized.

Even in the trenches, with layers upon layers of mud and gunpowder caking everything, Scho would tidy things up. He’d pick up discarded items as they walked along, moving them to the sides or tossing them in empty barrels being used as makeshift rubbish bins. 

Blake used to tease him about it, so seeing him do that now was comforting. A bit of normalcy in a shit situation.

Blake’s gaze travelled to Scho’s left hand. It was freshly bandaged and cradled in his other. His fingers were picking at the edges of the gauze. Blake let his eyes go further up towards Scho’s face, and blue eyes met his in return.

He realized Scho must have been watching him as he stared.

Scho’s gaze softened and a smile touched on his lips. “It itches a bit, but I’ll be okay, don’t worry. If you knew what I went through to get here, you’d think I’m death proof.”

Blake swallowed to try and clear the anxiety swelling his throat. “Tell me about it? I’m tired of telling the stories for once. I want to listen.”

Scho’s smile widened as he made himself comfortable and looked up at the ceiling. He cleared his throat and began to tell his tale.

* * *

For the next few days, Blake watched as Will succumbed more and more to infection. He slept longer and ate less. At least he still seemed determined to drink water.

It was torture. Worse than when Blake was stabbed, and worse even than when he spent a day here, lost in limbo and wondering if his brother and Scho had made it.

Scho spent the time cycling through sweating and bone-wracking chills. He couldn’t lay comfortably and sleep was restless, filled with nightmares. The pain in his hand wasn’t so bad when he was awake, but it was unbearable in his sleep. Turning into a white hot brand that kept pulled groans from between his clenched teeth.

Blake was a mess. He only slept from exhaustion, kept awake by the sound of the man he loved suffering through the night. They’d managed to have a few conversations here and there. And Scho told him that listening to his stories gave him something pleasant to focus on.

So Blake talked and talked. He would do anything to help, and it was the only thing he really could do. He couldn’t even bear his own weight for the few steps it would take to reach Schofield’s bed.

After a few days of this, the doctor informed Blake that he was cleared of any potential infection that could develop. It was time to move him to a different ward, one with other soldiers who were recovering from deeper wounds. His bed needed to be cleared and given to someone else with infection.

Blake heard all of this, but he didn’t want to listen. He didn’t want to leave his friend, not like this. To be stuck alone with people he didn’t know. Who would be there to comfort him when he started hallucinating? Who would tell him stories and remind him of the future they could have together?

A few doctors came in and transported Blake to his new room on a stretcher. The last thing he saw when he left the room was Schofield curled up, hair stuck to his forehead, and his gaze staring unfocused towards the ground.

Blake begged his new nurse to get updates on Schofield’s condition. She agreed, but only because she was friends with his previous nurse. She had a lot to focus on, but she could see the desperation in Blake whenever he begged her. There wasn’t a lot of hope around here, who was she to deny it to someone who could have it?

The brief updates were all Blake had for one week, then two, then three. Within that time, he’d received word from his brother and a paragraph of shining praise for Schofield. On the third week, the nurse actually seemed chipper when she spoke to him.

“Your friend,” she’d said. “He’s improved so much. His fever broke and his mind is coming back to him.”

A relieved and slightly hysterical laugh left Blake’s lips upon hearing that news. He immediately wanted to see him, but he still wasn’t allowed to walk. Although the surface of his wound had healed enough for the stitches to be removed soon, it was rather deep. The muscle had been damaged and he wasn’t allowed to put any weight on his leg for a while.

Staring at the packet in the nurse’s hand, however, gave him an idea. “If he’s up to it, do you think I could send him a note?”

The nurse gave him an annoyed look, lips pulling tight. “Maybe. But don’t make it a habit, it’s a distraction for us.”

Blake fiddled with the bracelet on his wrist. “I understand.” He was still disappointed, though.

The nurse carried on her rounds and another few days, had passed before he finally got the opportunity to send a note up.

He wrote it on the back of an old supply inventory the nurse gave him, and left space for Schofield to respond using the same paper.

_Sco,_  
_They moved me downstairs, and with my injury I don’t think I’ll be able to visit you for some time. How’s the hand? You didn’t lose it I hope. Did anyone tell you how long you’ve been here? I have been going mad staring at these walls with no one to talk to. The soldiers in my room are not interested in my stories. It’s a shame._

_At least we get to enjoy this food while we’re still here. Not as good as my mum’s, but leagues better than trench stew!_  
_-Blake_

Frustratingly, it was another few days before he received a response from Schofield. But he was ecstatic when the nurse handed him the note along with his dinner.

_Blake,_  
_My sense of time had escaped me during the fever. It felt like months, not mere weeks. I noticed your absence in the times I was lucid, and in my feverish state I could only imagine the worst. To say I was happy to receive your note would be an understatement._

_I’ve still got my hand, blessedly. It is still an open wound, but there is already talk about my discharge. The doctor believes the skin will heal quickly once I regain my strength back. He estimates about a week._

_I do not wish to return to the 8th without my Lance Corporal by my side, but much like everything in this war, it is out of our control._

_I will not leave here without seeing you first. I am currently weak and my muscles have atrophied a bit. But I will come down when I can._  
_-Sc **h** ofield_  
_P.S. Those soldiers don’t know what stories they’re missing. The silence is louder than your voice ever was._

Schofield’s words had Blake’s heart racing and his stomach aching. He wanted to hold Scho in his arms again and never let go. For all his waiting around, Blake never expected them to be separated again. He just assumed that they would go back to the frontlines together. It was the belief that kept him from growing too exasperated with his situation here.

But now that he knew otherwise… he groaned in frustration. It was like the forces of the universe were intentionally keeping them apart. What other trials did they have to go through? Was it God’s punishment for being queer?

No, Blake told himself. If that were the case, God had plenty of chances to kill them already. Besides, the war was like literal hell on earth. If God were real, Blake believed they were being punished enough. And yet-

Torn apart again. He could cry.

* * *

As posited in the letter, Schofield was out of bed within a week’s time. Blake had finished lunch and was having his wound inspected when his friend walked in. He was back in his uniform and his hand was no longer bandaged up.

“Scho,” Blake greeted him with a big smile. His heart leapt at the idea of getting up and hugging and kissing him, but he knew he couldn’t do that, for more reasons than one.

Schofield smiled back at him and the two stared at each other for a beat, not saying anything while the nurse was finishing up.

She must have sensed their hesitation, because she glanced at them before rolling her eyes and continuing with applying ointment to the wound.

Blake thanked her as she left. It wasn’t like there was more privacy without her in the room. But being surrounded by other soldiers felt different somehow. Men in their position wouldn’t be unfamiliar with the close bonds foraged in the trenches. So it felt… safer, to be just a bit more intimate than what the nurses might expect.

Schofield moved to sit on the edge of the bed, and he placed his hand on the mattress. Recognizing the opportunity, Blake moved his own hand close enough to touch and Scho linked their pinkies together. Their bodies and the sheets hid the action from view.

Blake breathed out steadily at the comforting touch and bit his lip. He didn’t know what to stay. He was at a loss of words for once.

Schofield cleared his throat. “I’m officially released. I have to report back to the General.”

“You’re going back to the frontline,” said Blake.

“Yes. Well, I received correspondence saying our battalion gained ground. Because of us.”

Blake remembered then, the flare they shot off. Lieutenant Leslie would have known what it meant about the Germans having retreated. “How are you going to find them?” he asked.

Schofield ran his free hand through his hair. “I’m leaving with a truck full of other recovered soldiers today. I’ll be dropped off along with them. They even got a spare kit for me.”

“Oh,” Blake said. He wasn’t sure what else to ask about and he could feel their time to speak drawing to a close.

There was so much unspoken between them. Things they didn’t have the chance to say, and things they didn’t have the courage yet to say. But they weren’t going to get the time to say it, at least not for a while. And a dark part of Blake’s brain that he was trying to ignore told him maybe not ever.

Blake swallowed a lump in his throat and felt his eyes sting, “Will you write to me?”

Schofield’s face softened, “Every chance I get.” He reached a hand into his jacket and pulled out the old cigarette tin Blake only ever got to briefly glance at.

“I have the hospital’s address tucked in here. I’ll write to you first chance I get, so you know where to send your letters.”

A wave of longing came over Blake so strongly he closed his eyes to prevent himself from pulling Will into a kiss. It was easier to stop himself when he couldn’t see his face. He breathed deeply in and out, to gain control, before opening his eyes again. As he did so, he felt a couple stray tears streak down his cheeks.

Scho raised his hand, but aborted the motion when he was halfway to Blake’s face. As if he were going to wipe away the tears, then remembered where they were. Instead, he smiled, but Blake could see the same pain and yearning reflected in his eyes that Blake himself felt.

Blake knew it was time for him to go though, so he grabbed the folded note that he and Scho shared in the hospital and carefully ripped it in two. One piece contained Blake’s note, and the other held Scho’s.

Blake handed the half with his own writing on it out to Schofield. “If you want it. I’m keeping yours.”

A gentle huff of laughter briefly lit up Scho’s face as he accepted the paper and put it in the tin before safely tucking it back into his jacket. The corners of Blake’s lips twitched at the thought that his words were being carried right over Schofield’s heart.

Schofield squeezed Blake’s hand and said, “I’ll see you again, rest that leg.”

Blake squeezed back and ran his thumb along Scho’s knuckles. “I haven’t got a choice, do I?”

“No,” Scho replied softly. He smiled at Blake one more time, then nodded his head and stood up.

As he left the room, Blake’s fingers twitched in the growing cold.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of letters exchanged by Will and Tom while they're separated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "Miss Blake" is so Will can be as blatant as he wants about their relationship without worrying about the person reading letters for censorship suspecting anything!
> 
> Slight warning for some descriptions of the war, specifically with the Somme.

3rd May, 1917  
L.Cpl. Thomas Blake,  
I write to you from the reserve trench our battalion has been stationed at for the past two days. I had to trade rations for paper, since I had none. This was worth it, of course. There is a frightful silence without you serving by my side. Writing this letter, I can pretend for a few minutes that we are speaking once more.

In our absence, the Major has appointed a new Lance Corporal. I spoke with some of the other soldiers and they informed me that he was chosen on account of his “natural leadership” within the 8th during their movement to the new trenches. He’s quiet and we get on fine, but thus far it’s not comparable to our collaboration.

After spending so much time in a proper bed, I admit I am struggling with the transition back to the frontline. I used to have a talent for being able to sleep in the worst conditions, but now I’m lucky to fall asleep for longer than a couple hours at a time. What used to be a respite is no longer. My dreams are plagued by the war, and by you. You are often killed in them, never the same way twice.

The anxiety lingers when I wake, because you aren’t here. To the illogical part of my brain, this means you are truly gone. I try to reassure myself with logic, but the blow to my head must have caused lasting damage because no logic can squander my fears now.

You’re my best friend, and I have known that for a while. But this situation has made it viscerally more clear.

Best wishes to your recovery,  
L.Cpl. William Schofield

\--

_7th May, 1917_  
_L.Cpl. William Schofield,_  
_I’m sorry to hear that your transition is rough. Stop giving away your food though, I can just send paper in my envelopes along with my own letters. You need to eat to stay strong out there._

_I can relate to your fears about my wellbeing, because every night I’m kept awake by the thought of you dying in the next battle. I used to just have to worry about Joe, but I worry about you too now. And I’m frustrated that I’m not there to keep you safe. Please don’t worry about me. The stitches were removed before I received your letter, and it left an ugly scar but this means I’m alive and healing._

_They tried letting me walk today with some crutches to bear the weight. It didn’t go very well, but the doctor didn’t seem concerned. It hurt something awful and they laughed when I begged for whisky._

_That reminds me of the time when we were on night watch together and shared a drink. It kept us warm and I don’t think I laughed as much in my life as I did then. I miss our friendship. I wish we met in a better place, but it is what it is._

_When I was little my mum used to have me talk about my nightmares with her. She said it would make them go away, and I think it helped a little bit. Maybe you should try that? Write to me Scho. Tell me what keeps you awake._

_Be safe,_  
_L.Cpl. Thomas Blake_

\--

12th May, 1917  
L.Cpl. Thomas Blake,  
Thank you for the paper, and for your reassurances. I’m glad to hear that the stitches are out and you’ve begun to move around again. I know how much you hate sitting still. And I hope my continued correspondence brings you some semblance of peace.

I think I will take your offer of detailing what haunts me. Writing it down instead of saying it aloud feels easier- less personal. Like it happened to someone else, and I’m simply recounting the story to you.

You already knew I received a medal from my participation in battles of the Somme. The name alone quickens my heart in fear. There were a lot of battles, and it felt like it was never going to end. Anyone you knew was likely to die, so I just- stopped trying to make friends. Seeing people you know be there one moment and gone the next with a bullet or bomb blast was paralyzing. But you had to keep moving or else you’d make yourself the next target.

The Bosche used gas on us. It was suffocating and burned. You could feel it in your lungs for weeks, like you inhaled a bunch of pin needles. The chalk from the collapsing bunker hurt less, but it reminded me of this weapon, it blinded me all the same. Sometimes when they made us dig trenches, we didn’t have respirators on hand. When the gas hit, it was a mad dash to get them and mere minutes of exposure caused enough damage to send you to hospital.

That’s what happened to me, but they sent me back out rather quickly. The final battle was Theipval. By the end of the offensive I felt as if none of me was left. I was technically physically present, but my mind was elsewhere. I felt like nothing was real and nothing mattered. I stopped caring whether I lived or died, whether I would ever go home.

Do not take my position as Lance Corporal as a sign of leadership. It is instead a reflection of how few soldiers were left in my battalion. Soon after I was given this rank, a group of soldiers fresh from training were positioned with my Captain- you among them.

I don’t know how you persisted in speaking to me for so long when I refused to respond or even acknowledge your presence. I didn’t want you to be another person I knew that I would suffer the loss of. But you clawed your way into my head and made yourself a home despite all efforts to the alternative. And I cannot regret that.

Slowly, you reintroduced me to myself. And I’m forever grateful for your friendship.

Now, my missions are routine. It is a welcome departure from the chaos of the Somme and the danger of delivering the message. For you I am staying alert, but I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that the long stretches of squatting in mud were a breath of fresh air.

Blessedly bored,  
L.Cpl. William Schofield

\--

_18th May, 1917_  
_L.Cpl. William Schofield,_  
_That is all rather horrible, and I’m sorry you went through that. No one should. To be honest, if I knew about stuff like that then I probably wouldn’t have enlisted at all. It sounds like true hell. I hope writing it down did bring you some peace. And for what it’s worth, I thought you were a great leader and I often looked to you for guidance. I had no idea what I was doing, but you made me feel safe._

_Even when we were tasked with a suicide mission. You tried to keep me from diving into things head first and you always warned me about my ~~nayevete naievte~~ -forget the word. It was from my insistence to do things a certain way that I was stabbed, and I only have myself to blame for that._

_I kept talking to you because though you didn’t respond in the beginning, I could tell you actually listened. I wanted to talk to someone who listened to me, not the soldiers who would talk over each other in an attempt to see who could have the wildest story. That would be me of course, but it’s no fun when people don’t care._

_I hope that things continue being boring for you, that gives me some peace at night now. But I also don’t want to be too hopeful since I appear to have a way of jinxing things._

_Currently, I have undergone another week of attempted physical therapy. There has been no improvement on my ability to bear weight on the affected leg, nor is there a decrease in general pain. The doctor says the knife tore through muscle down to the bone and caused nerve damage and “the war will be over before you can walk again.” The nurse was not a fan of the way he presented this information, so she explained it to me._

_I am to be transferred to a hospital back in England where a different doctor might be more familiar with the injury and its treatments. They want to free up another cot here and send me there for rehabilitation._

_As of now, I have not been medically discharged from the army, but I’m afraid that will be the result when I return to England. You will also have to wait until I write to you again, because I won’t be able to get an address until I’ve settled in._

_Until I write again,_  
_L.Cpl. Thomas Blake_

_\--_

_1st June, 1917_  
_L.Cpl. William Schofield,_  
_I greatly apologize for how long it took. The route home was not quick and quite painful on my leg. They waited until a large number of soldiers were ready to be transferred over, and as much as I wanted to write, I didn’t want to bother the nurses during this transition._

_It also feels like I have only just got settled in this hospital before they decided I should be discharged from the army and sent home._

_They assessed the extent of my injury over the course of a week of exercises and have informed me that I will always have a limp and that it will never fully heal. The damage was too deep. I was shown several stretches and exercises that they assure me on daily completion will gradually increase my ability to walk without a crutch. They said the other muscles will grow to accommodate the new movement._

_I want to be hopeful, but right now I feel as immobile as my late grandfather Blake. And I do not yet know how to deal with this. I am also terrified that in the time between the last letter you wrote me and now, something horrible could have happened to you. Waiting to see if you’re still alive hurts in a deeper way than my injury._

_I’m not sure how much shorter or longer I will be staying at this hospital, but I will be using my home as the return address for this letter. Send your correspondence there, and it will be a more welcome gift home than even Myrtle._

_Your dear friend,_  
_L.Cpl. Thomas Blake_

_\--_

12th June, 1917  
Miss Blake,  
I’m sorry you had to wait so long to hear from me again.

I believe writing down my experiences did help in some way. The nightmares haven’t stopped, but I feel slightly lighter when I walk around during the day. Things here have remained boring, or as boring as routine trench warfare can be. 

I reread your letters to me every night. They are kept safe in an old cigarette tin and the creases of the folds are beginning to fray with overuse. I cannot stop though, they bring me comfort and security where there is none. I can also hear your voice in my head as I read, as if you are standing here beside me. And I miss your voice so very much.

Our relationship had only just properly begun right before I left. It was a gamble of heartache and foolish bravery to kiss you that day. I am relieved that my feelings are reciprocated, and I believe it would have been worth the gamble even if they weren’t.

I am also sorry for your injury. That type of thing should never have happened and I feel a wealth of guilt for not preventing it. Your naivete is at once both frustrating and endearing to me. It shows the ends to which you believe there is good in this world, and that is a good trait to have. But it also gets you in trouble, and I cannot always protect you.

I have seen many soldiers recover from worse injuries. You would be surprised at how much the body can heal. And if it doesn’t? No matter, that won’t change anything between us. I care for you all the same.

Yours,  
Will Schofield

\--

_17th June, 1917_  
_Will,_  
_To say that the words in your last letter were surprising is a giant understatement. My mother thought I had won 1000 pounds in the mail for the reaction I had._

_I’m happy to hear that in some way writing those things down helped. And when we meet again you can tell me more. I know many things will be censored in your writing otherwise. As for my injury, you better not blame yourself for it. I would have made the same choice again because it was the right thing to do in my mind. I’ll be okay._

_I have to admit that I also keep your letters by my bed. I could feel a tightness in my chest at the thought of us reading them at the same time. I might be a sentimental fool, but it makes me feel closer to you._

_It is a true tragedy that we never got to start our relationship proper, at nobody’s fault. Except maybe the Germans. And of course I would have reacted well to your kiss. It was an example of your courage and if I hadn’t already been longing for you in that way, that kiss would have convinced me._

_I have more to say that I wasn’t able to before, when nosy parents looked over my shoulder as I wrote. And I hope this isn’t too forward, but I would very much like to lay in the same bed as you and hold you close. As you had nightmares, I would have tried to soothe them with the warmth of my body and the pressure of my arms around you. And I would whisper kind things in your ear. And maybe you would have done the same to me when I had my own nightmares._

_I want more kisses and more time to just be with you. Please come home safe. For me._  
_Yours as well,_  
_T. Blake_

_\--_

24th June, 1917  
Miss Blake,  
It wasn’t too forward at all, and if my fellow soldiers hadn’t already guessed that I had a new bird in my life, they would have guessed by my reaction. I could feel myself blushing profusely as I imagined the very scenario you detailed.

All we have right now is our words, so I want you never to feel afraid to say what you want to me. I would love to be held in your arms, and to hold you back in return. I would brush my fingers through your curls and try to count the freckles on your face. I would tease you and watch as your cheeks turned rosy and your eyes rolled at me. Then laugh at whatever audacious remark you have to give me in return.

Our relationship would not be unlike our friendship. We would be adding more to the connection we already had, and I’ve never been so ready for something in my life. If there’s one thing I learned in this war it’s that one should never hesitate to love, because we don’t know when we could lose that opportunity. Even if it hurts, we have to. You showed me that.

It is a tragedy of sorts we’ve gotten ourselves into now. But the hope of coming home and seeing you again is what keeps me going now. I know hope might have been the cause of your injury, but I’ve seen more men here die by succumbing to a distracting hopelessness instead. This hope keeps me alert along the trenches, and I hold it close to my heart where the old tobacco tin rests.

I’m so tired of this fight, however. I’ve been here too long.

When I’m most tired, I look up at the sky. If I’m lucky, the clouds will have cleared and it will be a brilliant blue. It’s pretty, but it is not a substitute for the color of your eyes. I cannot quite remember the exact shade, but I know when I look up it isn’t the same because I’m not nearly as captivated as I was whenever I looked at you.

I miss you so very much,  
Will Schofield

\--

_30th June, 1917_  
_Will,_  
_I wish I could properly explain what reading your words does to me- for me. But I’m not as good with my own words, I’m not a poet like you tend to be. But I will try._

_I could almost feel you here with me, the way you described what you would do, and what our relationship would be like. We only kissed the once, but when I think about it I can feel the ghost of your lips on mine. Please tell me it doesn’t just have to be a memory. That we won’t have long stretches of time between us when you’re back in England._

_You asked me to not be afraid to say what I want, so I’m going to say it. I know you didn’t like going home during the war, because you couldn’t stand the thought of your sister and nieces never seeing you again. But I want to be selfish and ask you just for a week to take leave for my birthday, the 20th of July._

_I can’t stand the thought, but my brain gives me no choice but to think about it all the time. The idea of never seeing you again after we’ve just got together. What if we took a week, just us, and stayed in a hotel somewhere in London and just enjoyed things together? I don’t want to lose any chance to be with you. And this could hold us over until the end of the war._

_But I understand if that’s too difficult. If all we have until the end of the war is pen and paper, then I’ll improve. I’ll learn to write stories of what we would be doing if you were here. I’ll learn to write stories the way I’ve been known to tell them out loud. And that’ll be enough. It has to be._

_I miss you every day,_  
_T. Blake_

_\--_

28th July, 1917  
Miss Blake,  
I am so incredibly sorry for the amount of time that has passed between my last letter and this one. I can’t imagine the fear it must have brought you when I hadn’t responded. In short, I got shot.

Briefly after my last letter, there was a substantial battle. I consider myself lucky to have only been hit with a bullet, and not with the bomb shrapnel I saw tearing others apart. I was hit in my left arm, and, while it didn’t completely shatter the bone, quite a bit of damage was done and some of my nerves are permanently injured, they said.

My hand tremors as I write to you, fortunately my nondominant one. I can hear you making a crude joke from all the way in France nonetheless. I already lost some dexterity in that hand from the infection previous, so this certainly makes things worse.

But, otherwise, I am okay. I hesitate to call this “lucky”, but it does mean I’m being honorably discharged due to injury. In other words, I get to come home early. Despite this, I think it’s important for me to tell you that had this not happened, I would have seriously considered your request. My sister understands why I haven’t returned, but the bond I have with you is rather different. I can’t make excuses to stay away.

I apologize for missing your birthday and I’m not foolish enough to believe it was a happy one given the circumstances. I’m ready to come home now, though, and we don’t have to worry about fighting anymore.

Since I’m mobile, I’m traveling soon to visit my sister in Cookham. I will stay with her and my nieces for a couple weeks, and then I’ll send you a letter from there when I’m ready to come to you. Please let me know when you are available and if your offer of visitation still stands. I’m putting my sister’s flat as the return address so you can respond to me there.

Take care of yourself for me,  
Will Schofield

\--

_2nd August, 1917_  
_Bloody bastard,_  
_I really thought you’d only gone and bloody died on my birthday, I would have never forgiven you for that! Also thought maybe I scared you off, but it was the fear of death that won out in the end._

_I was afraid to keep checking the post when nothing new showed up but I never stopped, hoping that there was some other explanation and waiting for it to come. And it finally came, and I’ve never been so greatful to see a piece of paper in all my life. I nearly gone and bloody kissed the letter._

_Excuse my excitement, I don’t mean to be insensitive but I’m just so happy you’re okay. Even if it’s not entirely okay. I’m not entirely okay either, we’ll be matching. It’s all good, as long as we’re together. But I’m sorry to hear about it, if the pain was anything like my wound then you probably wished you had died at the time._

_Don’t apologize for anything, you haven’t done anything wrong. And you’re welcome here anytime. My mother is excited to finally meet you as well. You can stay at our house and sleep in my brother’s old room because I find it hard to believe my mother would be okay with us sharing a bed. Oh- he’s doing well by the way, I write to him too._

_When you get here, I’ll get to give you the grand tour and take you into town. You’ll finally get to meet Myrtle too! The puppies have all gone, and the cherries are nearly done for the season, but there are other things to do here. I didn’t like picking the cherries much anyway this year. I was still healing so I can’t help as much as I used to._

_Anyway, you choose the time and I’ll come to meet you and we’ll go to my house together. And I know they don’t know me, but give my love to your sister and nieces? I’ve always loved kids, maybe I could meet them one day._

_Take your time but do hurry up,_  
_T. Blake_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Tom finally come together and begin to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: descriptions of panic attacks, slight flashbacks, and slight internalized ableism towards a new permanent injury. As well as warning for hints at period typical homophobia, but again it's just an anxiety Will and Tom have. The people who find out about them are very supportive!

As he sat stiff on the train, Blake pulled the chain of his identification tag bracelet through his fingers, over and over again. It was something rhythmic to focus on amongst the unpredictable chatter and movement of the train around him. He was so far removed from what he was used to on the front lines, more-so even than the hospital. At least at the hospital, there were other soldiers.

Here, it was only Blake in uniform. People stared at him or otherwise thanked him for his service. He didn’t know how he should respond to that, let alone how he _wanted_ to respond.

The worst was the pitying looks from mother types. It stripped away the adulthood armor he felt he built in the war, and made him long for someone to hold his hand and tell him he’s almost home.

Blake averted his gaze from the other passengers and stared hard at the floor. He remained like that for some time, until a pair of feet walking by tripped over the edge of a suitcase carried that person directly towards him.

Blake looked up in time to see the man’s hands reach forward towards his legs. Panicked, Blake jumped up and shoved the Hun away as hard as he could and with the momentum, he fell backwards onto the floor himself. Breathing hard, Blake felt for the wound on his thigh, and when his hands came away dry, reality started closing back in.

With wide eyes, Blake looked around and saw he had shoved an old man. Not the German pilot. He was on a train back in England, he was safe here. But he’d just made a fool of himself, and he couldn’t understand why.

It was hard for him to breathe, like he’d just finished running drills, but the panic rushing through his system overwhelmed any sense of logic. Blake’s heart raced as his face heated under the shocked stares of the passengers as he grabbed his crutch and stumbled clumsily to his feet.

“Sorry. Sorry,” he rasped out, and guilty as he felt he couldn’t stay there. His brain was screaming at him to leave, to get away.

He limped away to the back of the train’s carriage and locked himself in the washroom. Luckily, he didn’t have a suitcase to worry about. The only thing he left the war with, was his uniform and memories that created the shadows under his eyes.

* * *

Blake promised himself he wouldn’t cry when he made it home, but as soon as his mother’s arms wrapped around him at the front door, his body shook with the force of his sobs. He was quiet, but his mother could feel the strength of it and she held him tight on their doorstep until Blake was still and he had no more tears left to shed.

When he pulled away, Judith Blake wiped his face clean with a dish towel that was hanging over her shoulder, and then tried to fix the mess of his hair with just her fingers combing through it. The result was dissatisfying, so she said, “Come inside before you catch cold.” Even though it was June and sunny out.

And Blake followed her inside and that was that.

* * *

Blake thought the first thing his mother would do was ask about his injury, but she didn’t. In fact, she didn’t ask him about it or the war at all. It was almost as if she knew he couldn’t talk about it with her.

Of course, she knew he was stabbed, but he hadn’t been more detailed in his letters. He hadn’t wanted to scare her, but mostly he just wanted to talk to someone who could understand. Like his brother, or Scho.

So, he wrote to Scho a lot, and his mother never asked who he was writing to or why the letters were never addressed to his full name. She was respectful of his privacy like that. Only ever prying in a joking manner, and allowing Blake the space to divulge if he wanted to.

Mrs. Blake just knew that the letters seemed to be the only highlight of his time at home, besides taking Myrtle out to the orchard and relaxing amongst the cherry trees.

* * *

Blake kept up with the exercises his doctor showed him. It was partially the desire for routine again, and partially because it made him feel less helpless than sitting around did.

It hurt, and always left him out of breath by the end. His mother would comment that that must mean it’s working. But it didn’t _feel_ like it was working. Blake still needed the crutch and he couldn’t keep weight on his leg for too long or it sometimes buckled under the stress.

The muscles surrounding the scar would twitch involuntarily as well. Massaging his thigh seemed to lessen the severity of it, but no matter what Blake did, he couldn’t forget what happened. How it would always affect his movement, limiting him.

He wasn’t as capable as he used to be, and he felt it with every step.

* * *

One day early in July, Blake asked his mother if a friend he’d made in the army could stay with them on leave. She never would have said no, and she couldn’t imagine how anyone could with the way his face lit up at the mere thought of this man coming round. She asked Tom to tell her about him and he did, with the same amount of energy and expression she was used to her son having.

She took mental note of the soldier’s name, Will Schofield, and tied it to the name she’d seen on the letters. So this was the one making her boy happy.

Unfortunately, as Blake’s birthday drew closer and then passed, he received no new letters from his friend. An anxious depression settled over her son, not unlike the time their father didn’t come home from work. Farming accident. She hoped whatever was keeping Schofield away wasn’t the same fate.

* * *

At the end of July, Blake felt strong enough to try helping his mother pick the last of the cherries before the season ended. He felt awful not being able to help earlier, but she assured him that she was happy he was home safe at all. Joe’s absence hung quietly over them.

They’d been at it for an hour when Blake accidentally put too much of his weight on his bad leg as he reached for a couple cherries that were higher up. Pain flashed through his leg as he grabbed them, and Blake fell to the ground, crushing the cherries under his hand.

“Fucking hell,” he gasped out.

His mother started approaching him and asked, “Are you alright, dear?”

But he didn’t answer. Instead, he was staring at his hands, now stained a dark red from the fruit. Blake’s hands shook as some of the juice trailed a bloody path down his wrists. It was the same as-

Blake felt his stomach in his throat and he was surprised to see no blood pulsing from his thigh when he looked down in a panic. His heart was racing and terror flooded his veins like he really was back at that abandoned farm in France.

He couldn’t get enough oxygen, he was gasping and trying to drag in rasping breaths. But it was as if a tourniquet was pulling tight around his ribs and squeezing his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t- He didn’t want to die. He felt like he was dying again.

“Tom!”

Warm hands found their way to his cheeks and Blake still couldn’t breathe.

“I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”

His mother pulled him close to her chest and cradled his head. “You’re not going to die, you’ve just had a fall. You’re okay, you’re okay. You’re back home, remember?”

Blake let himself be held, but he was certain he was going to die. “But the blood-“

“Tom, there’s no blood, it’s juice from the cherries, right?”

He was shaking his head no, so she took one of his hands and pushed it against his mouth. Some of the juice smeared onto his lips and he instinctually licked it away. When the familiar taste hit his senses, Blake closed his eyes and let it wash over him. It was home. It was safe.

He got control over his breathing and his body slowly returned from the panicked state it was in. He apologized to his mum, embarrassed by his reaction.

She only held him tighter in response.

* * *

Shortly after the incident in the orchard, Blake finally received word from Schofield. He’d never been so excited for his mum to tell him a letter had finally arrived for him.

By that point, it was so long since he’d heard from Scho, that he was afraid to check the mail himself. It was easier to pretend he had an unopened letter, than it was to have confirmation that no letter had arrived at all.

It was a moot point now, however. He hobbled his way to the kitchen and took it with shining eyes from his mother’s outstretched hands. Blake couldn’t wait until he was alone to read it. He immediately opened it and held it to his heart after reading the first paragraph.

He met his mother’s gaze and told her the news, that Scho was alive- just injured.

Satisfied, she left the room to give him some privacy. She never had to ask to know Blake preferred reading the letters this way.

Once alone, Blake read through it several times before writing his own response and addressing it to the new address Schofield left for him. And as much as he wanted to take the next train straight to Cookham, he would be patient.

Schofield would be safe there, he didn’t have to worry about him anymore. Blake couldn’t think of a better late birthday present.

* * *

It was a few weeks after that, that Blake received word from Schofield once again, informing him of the train’s schedule and when he was expected to arrive near his village in Essex.

The Blake home was in a small farming village just lucky enough to be near a station. Many of his neighbors traveled into London to sell produce and dairy products to make extra money. The Blake’s never produced enough to sell more than cherries, though. Their farm was quite small, containing enough livestock to meet the needs of their own family.

Blake took their small wooden carriage, pulled by their one horse, up to the station. He wasn’t strong enough to ride yet, and even if he was, he wasn’t sure what state Scho would be in.

Scho.

Just thinking the name when they were so _close_ sent warmth through his body, like the sun was shining on him during a summer’s day.

When he made it to the station, the train hadn’t arrived yet. He made sure to go early so that Scho would immediately have a friendly face greeting him. Blake hoped that Schofield travelled better than he did.

Blake waited on a bench with his crutch propped up next to him. He stared out to the tracks instead of the clock, in an attempt to make the time feel as if it was passing faster. It didn’t work. He felt every second, and often glanced at the clock.

When he finally saw the train approach in the distance, it was a half-hour past the scheduled arrival. Blake quickly got up and walked closer to the platform. He was too short to see into the windows of the approaching train, but he tried to spot Schofield anyway. He wasn’t successful.

With the train came a backdraft of air as it slowly halted to a stop at the platform. It ruffled Blake’s hair and he annoyedly pushed it out of his face as he shuffled his weight from foot to foot. There were only a couple other people waiting around the station, so it wasn’t crowded at least. Not many people getting off at this stop, either.

Finally, the doors opened and Blake looked hard at every person who exited, scanning for the only face he cared about. When it seemed like everyone had gotten off, Blake still hadn’t spotted him. He looked around anxiously, biting his lip and worrying that he’d somehow missed Scho. Or even that Schofield decided not to come last minute.

His thoughts came to a halt as he heard a voice behind him.

“Tom.”

He’d never forget that voice, soft in quality and commanding when needed. He remembered it better than the shade of Schofield’s eyes or-

“Tom.” Scho placed a guiding hand on Blake’s shoulder and turned him around.

Face to face, Blake understood why he had frozen to the spot. He was overwhelmed with longing and love for this man and had nowhere to express it for months. And finally now that the object of his sleepless nights and aching heart was _here_ , he almost couldn’t handle it.

Blake felt his bottom lip tremble as his eyes filled with tears.

Schofield’s, face softened at the sight, and he pulled Blake into a hug. Scho held him close and whispered into his ear. “I missed you so much, you have no idea.”

Blake sobbed out a laugh into Scho’s shoulder where his face was pressed. He clung tight and fisted his hands in Schofield’s jacket. “I think I have an idea, actually, you bastard.”

He withheld himself from confessing his love then and there, but only just.

Schofield was the first to pull away, reminding them that they were in public and should probably wait until they were alone to hold each other for so long.

Blake couldn’t stop staring at his face regardless, trying to re-memorize it because his stomach was flipping at the idea of this man being snatched away from him again.

“Your crutch,” Scho said. He bent down to pick it up and hand it back to Blake who hadn’t noticed it falling during their embrace.

Their fingers brushed as Blake took it from him, sending another wave of longing through him and his lips tingled as his gaze met Schofield’s. “Thank you,” he said. But it sounded heavy, weighted by things not spoken.

Schofield nodded and said, “How are we getting to your home?”

Blake motioned for Scho to follow him and led the way out. Blake couldn’t help but think they were leading each other once more, but this time it was much safer. Live horses replaced dead ones, flattened dirt roads replaced a muddy maze between bombshelled craters, and civilians replaced soldiers. The scariest thing here would be a runaway cow or their own lack of discretion.

And here they could be Will and Tom, they didn’t need the formalities of the war anymore. Especially not with how close they’d become. Tom mouthed the shape of Will’s name to himself when Scho was turned away, testing its weight on his tongue and the sound of it in his head. It was soft, like the owner it belonged to.

They travelled back to the Blake farm in heavy silence. It was hard, transitioning from the letters to face to face. Some sentiments were easier to express in writing, especially if it was the first time expressing such things. Sending a letter could almost feel like writing in a private diary that no one else will see. But now they were greeted with tangible and unavoidable proof that the object of their desires was looking back and listening.

Tom didn’t think his feelings were unrequited, far from it actually. However, he still struggled with what to say at that moment. With the distance, they might have started beating in syncopation. But he was confident that they would fall into rhythm again once they spent a little time together.

He thought about how he broke the silence between them when they first met, how it all started with stories. So he decided to do what he did best. Tom cleared his throat and nudged Scho- Will, with his shoulder before pointing toward the general store and launching into a story about the time when he once shoplifted from it as a child and got chased down the road by the owner.

Will’s resulting laugh was the music Tom was waiting to hear.

* * *

The Blake home was a modest size, big enough for a family, but not large by any means. Will’s eyes trailed along the lines of the house while he waited for Tom to return from the barn that was about a hundred yards to the right. 

When Tom returned, Will could see that his face was a bit pinched in pain. Probably from the walking distance. Will knew that there was lasting damage based on what Tom wrote to him, but he still wasn’t expecting it. It was out of place, a young man Tom’s age with a limp? Although Will supposed this would be more commonplace, given how many young soldiers were in the army.

Ultimately, he was just sad that Tom was hurt in this way. That he went to war at all and that the war settled roots deep in Tom’s personhood. Will supposed the same thing happened to himself as well. He could handle his own pain, his own injuries. He just didn’t want Tom to experience it too.

Tom jerked his head towards the door. “You ready to meet my mum?”

Will answered as he bent down to pick up his bag. “I should say yes because I’ve heard so much about her and she sounds lovely, but what if she doesn’t like me?”

There was a deeper insecurity lying in that question, going back to his own mother leaving him and his sister to raise themselves.

Tom looked shocked for a second, but muted the expression as he led the way to the door. “She already loves you, trust me.”

With that, he opened the door and Will followed him inside. The sound of nails tapping frantically on wood raced through the house until a collie rounded the corner and into the foyer. Myrtle, Will remembered, sprinted over and knocked the door shut in her excitement as she wagged her tail and trailed circles around them looking for attention.

“Come here, Myrtle! Who’s a good girl?” Tom had leaned down enough to give her an enthusiastic petting around her ears and neck.

Will looked on fondly for a moment before kneeling down and allowing the dog to lick his chin. He met Tom’s gaze and the two smiled at each other. Will hadn’t pet a dog in years, he forgot how energetic they could be. He realized he wasn’t wrong in pegging Tom as puppylike when they first met.

“Tom, is that you?” a woman’s voice called out from somewhere in the house.

“Yes mum, we just got in!”

Will quickly stood up and patted down his clothes, trying to eliminate any wrinkles before Mrs. Blake saw him.

She came around the corner from the same place Myrtle had been, drying her hands off with a dishtowel. Will immediately saw the resemblance between her and her son. They both had rounded faces, deep blue eyes, and contagious smiles. It immediately put him at ease and he held a hand out to her.

“William Schofield, ma’am.”

She waved the hand away before pulling Will into a quick hug. “Oh none of this formal talk, you can call me Judith. I’ve heard so much about you dear, Tom never shuts up about you!”

Will bit back a laugh at the indignant, “hey!” coming from Tom. “Good things I hope?” he said.

Judith stepped back to take a good look at him. “Only the best. And Tom, you didn’t tell me he was so handsome too!”

Tom was trying to stutter out some sort of response and Will decided he very much liked Tom’s mother. She was bold and cheeky, and he finally knew where Tom got it from. He was happy Tom got to grow up in such a nice environment.

Will looked to his side and saw Tom grimacing as his cheeks flushed. Tom’s reaction was probably down to the thought of how his mother would react if she knew the true nature of their relationship, rather than any actual embarrassment at what she was saying.

“Are you boys hungry? I’ve just finished dinner before you came in.”

Will was hesitant to accept the meal, arbitrarily so since he was to live there for the next couple weeks. But old habits were hard to break. He was about to refuse when Blake finally pulled himself together and bumped elbows with him.

“We’re starving, right, Will?” Tom asked.

It was one of the first times Will heard Tom use his first name like that, and he decided he liked it very much. Even if he _was_ still fond of Tom’s nickname for him.

Judith was looking at him expectantly, so Will conceded. “Yes, but- where should I put my bag?”

“I’ve made up Joe’s old room, but you can leave that at the stairs for now. Come on!”

And with that, she went presumably to the kitchen. Myrtle dutifully trailed after her, leaving the two of them alone again.

“Well?” Tom asked.

“She’s nice,” Will said. “I think she likes me.”

Tom laughed and quickly squeezed Will’s hand in their temporary privacy, “I told you she did. Anyone who doesn’t would be stupid.”

Will fought the urge to roll his eyes to hide how touched he was at the comment. Instead, he smiled back and moved his bag out of the way. Then together they walked to the kitchen.

There was a table with four chairs in the middle of the room, and it was already set with dishes and silverware with a humble spread of food in the center. It was clear to Will that Judith had been preparing for his arrival. The care in the action was foregin to him, something he didn’t experience much growing up. The Blake’s, he quickly learned, were givers.

He sat down between Tom and his mother and began serving himself food when he saw the others do the same. The tremor and loss of dexterity in his left hand made itself known to the others when Will dropped the salt shaker he absentmindedly tried to pick up. He still wasn’t used to the change himself, so he often forgot about it until he was using both hands.

He grit his teeth at himself and apologized softly to Judith while he used his good hand to set the shaker back upright. He could feel dual gazes on him, but he didn’t look up.

Under the table, he felt Tom’s foot nudge against his own before remaining there, pressed close. It was as if to say, “I see you and I get you.” And he _did_ get it. Tom was struggling too. Will nudged his foot back to say, “thank you.”

The three of them resumed eating and conversation stayed light, thankfully. Judith stayed away from topics about the war or Will’s family. It made him think she was either a very smart woman, or familiar with the ways in which such subjects can open wounds and rub them raw. She was probably both.

She asked what Will thought about their village so far and asked him about his interests.

“Literature,” he said. “And poetry. I love reading, I can get really lost in those worlds and everyone has something different to say about the same work. What the author intended doesn’t really matter because people bring their own experiences into it, and interpret the writing their own way.”

Tom laughed and said, “He’s not joking about the getting lost part. If he’s reading, he hasn’t got a clue what’s going on around him. I’ve said his name before and sat there waiting five minutes at least before he looks up and asks if I was talking to him!”

Will looked at him in mock offense. “That’s an exaggeration.”

“Is not, I’ve got a watch!”

Judith watched their bickering with a fond gaze. She hadn’t seen her son light up this much since the last Christmas they had as a family. It was good for him. _Will_ , was good for him.

After dinner, Judith insisted she clean the dishes alone. “I’ve got it, I just want you boys to catch up. You haven’t seen each other in months, and if you really want to help you can start tomorrow.” 

One didn’t argue with Judith Blake.

So Tom told Will to follow him upstairs, and Myrtle was close on their heels, herding them. Tom pointed out the door to the bathroom, and then his own room which was the first on the right. Will was curious to see it, to see if it matched the image in his head or if he would be surprised.

“And this,” Tom interrupted his thoughts. “Is Joe’s room. My mum’s is at the end of the hall, so just don’t go in there.”

Tom opened the door and Will walked in behind him and set his bag down next to the bed. It was made up with fresh sheets already and there were a few clean towels folded at the end of the bed. Will glanced around and didn’t see much of note. The room was rather sparse, only containing the bed, a closet, and some boxes stacked in one of the corners.

Tom noticed his stare and said, “It’s some old stuff from when we were kids, we didn’t know where else to put it. Mum wanted us to keep it all for our own kids.”

At the mention of kids, they made eye contact and Will cleared his throat. It was another reminder of the way their relationship was going to affect their lives. Will would willingly give up the chance to be a father in order to be with Tom. But he wasn’t sure if Tom felt the same.

“Anyway, I’ll let you get settled.”

As Tom passed him to get to the door, Will moved closer and grabbed Tom’s free hand without thinking. Tom turned and gave him a confused look, and Will let his impulses guide him for once.

He gripped Tom’s shoulder with one hand, and with the other he cupped Tom’s cheek and leaned in close. He nuzzled his nose against Tom’s then pressed their lips together softly. Then he pulled back just enough to leave a couple inches of space between their mouths while he rested his forehead against Tom’s.

Tom put his free hand on the back of Will’s neck and let his fingers run through the hair there as he closed the distance between them once more. This kiss was no less soft, but it lingered. Will tilted his head for a better angle and kissed back harder.

They exchanged a series of kisses, intensifying as the sound of their heaving breaths entwined. Will gently pushed Tom backwards next to the doorframe and Tom gasped against his mouth as his back hit the wall.

Will poured all of his aching and longing into the kiss. All of the feelings that built up in him while he got to know Tom in the war, and all of the love he felt reading Tom’s letters and not getting to respond to them face to face. Tom was here now, in his arms and under his lips. And he would do anything to keep them from being apart again.

Will was about to deepen the kiss when he heard a whine, and it wasn’t coming from Tom.

The two of them broke the kiss and looked at the room’s only other occupant. Myrtle cocked her head at them and whined again, annoyed that no one was paying attention to her.

Tom started giggling first, and it was contagious enough for Will’s own chuckles to follow. They laughed against each other, holding each other up. They didn’t even know really what was funny, but it felt good to have that level of joy flowing through them. It’d been a long time since they felt it.

The sound of ceramic hitting ceramic floated to them from downstairs, and made them all too aware of the compromising position they found themselves in next to the open hallway.

Will pressed one last quick kiss to Tom’s mouth before stepping a respectable distance away. He didn’t want things to end on a bad note, so he said, “Next time we’ll close the door.”

Tom snorted as the mirth he felt seconds ago flowed back into him. “Oh, so there’ll be a next time?”

“As many as you’ll let me.” Will was going for a teasing tone, but he missed the mark and landed on serious instead. It was practically a declaration.

Tom’s face softened and the two stared at each other for a moment. There was only one phrase still left unsaid between them. Only three words long, but possibly the heaviest statement in their lives.

Instead of that, Will asked if he could see Tom’s room. Tom agreed of course, and Will followed him back down the hall towards it.

The first thing Will noticed was that Tom’s room was as messy as he’d envisioned it in his head. It paralleled the disorganized way his bunk was set up in the army, constantly misplacing things in the mess. There was a pile of dirty clothes next to a basket instead of inside it, and a closet door was left open, revealing its contents to whoever walked by.

On a dresser there were a couple photographs. One was similar to the photo Will had seen him carry around in France, a dressed up image of Tom, Joe, and his mother. The other photo was older, showing the family with an additional member, presumably his father. He looked more like Joe, but he had eyes as kind as the rest of the Blake family.

Also on the dresser was a small pile of stationary and a fountain pen and ink, along with a few dried cherry blossoms. Will wasn’t sure if Tom made it home early enough to have collected the blooms himself, but he hoped he did. The thought of Judith saving some for Tom warmed his heart regardless.

Tom sat himself on the unmade bed with a groan, and started gently massaging his thigh. Will winced in sympathy, random spasms of pain flowed down his injured arm still. He didn’t think it would ever fully go away.

Then, Will spotted an open box of letters resting on the small table next to Tom’s bed. His breath caught in his chest as he realized they must have been his own letters, and that Tom wasn’t exaggerating about reading them at night.

In a slight daze, Will slowly sat down next to Tom and pulled the box towards himself, pulling a few of them out. His hands shook as he held them and tried to read, to remember the things he’d said. He tried to focus on the parts about Tom, but instead his mind kept being drawn to the war. To the missions he’d had, to the loneliness, to the cold.

Warm hands gently pulled the letters away and tucked them neatly back in the box before wrapping around his shaking hands and holding them still. Or at least as still as they could be when one of them had a continuous tremor.

“Scho. _Will_.”

At the sound of his name, his real name, his awareness came back to his body. He took a measured breath, steadying himself as he stared at their joined hands in his lap. They looked good together, like puzzle pieces. He brought Tom’s hands to his face and kissed the knuckles by the signet rings Tom never seemed to take off. It was grounding.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It happens to me too,” Tom replied quietly.

Will didn’t know if he meant the shaking, the memories, or just losing touch with the world sometimes. Or maybe all of it. But it chased away the last of the coldness that was settling under Will’s skin. The comfort that someone knew and saw and understood. Not just someone. But the man he loved.

* * *

It was hard to go to bed that night. It was the first time they were separated since Tom first picked him up from the station. They even skipped bathing that first night, perfectly content to knock elbows while brushing teeth and taking turns washing their faces before going to their respective rooms to sleep with a parting squeeze of their hands.

Will was known to sleep through anything, but there he was tossing and turning, sleeping no deeper than a light doze. He felt the distance between him and Tom like they were once again separated by war. Which was silly, they were only a thin wall and a few yards apart. But Will felt it in the spikes of anxiety that continued to rouse him from peaceful sleep whenever he remembered he was alone in the room.

It must have been a few odd hours past midnight when Will heard two quiet thumps come through the wall across from his borrowed bed. He rolled over and sat up, mentally debating on whether or not it was a figment of his exhausted mind. But it also sent a wave of longing through him, the thought that it was real and that Will was reaching out to him.

This pushed Will to his feet and he crouched next to the wall and placed his ear against it then knocked quietly back. Quiet enough that if it had been a dream, he wouldn’t wake Tom.

But then, he heard a faint knock in return. Tom could have just been trying to see if he was the only one still awake, or he could have felt the distance between them as strongly as Will and was trying to cross that void in such an achingly young way. It made Will feel like a kid again. They were barely adults, forced that way by circumstance more than age.

Will’s feet carried him out of the room, down the hall, and into Tom’s room, shutting the door behind himself slow enough to quiet the squeaking hinges. His body carried him before his mind could catch up and excuse himself out of the decision. And it was all worth it for the way Tom sat up in bed, messy curls slightly illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the window.

Tom pulled the covers down, an open invitation. Will could never resist his magnetic pull.

The bed was a single, not quite big enough for two grown boys, but it had the unintentional benefit of forcing them closer together. Will climbed over Tom and slipped under the covers, turning on his side and wrapping his arms around Tom’s front. The two were pressed chest to back, fingers intertwined over Tom’s heart, and their heads sharing the same pillow.

It was the first time they’d ever pressed so close, but it was also natural. They moved like they’d done this a thousand times in a thousand lifetimes before. Being present, tethering themselves to the other’s warmth, holding each other together. In the trenches this was huddling close under the same damp blanket in the cold while put on watch. Or napping at the same tree, with their feet knocking together. Now in this bed, it was an extension of all the times before.

That void that lanced through Will’s chest when they were apart, finally was filled. He let out a bone-wracking sigh, gently ruffling Tom’s hair in the process. Tom’s hands tightened briefly around his own in response.

“Did you sleep at all?” Will asked.

“A little, but-”

But. But there were always nightmares, or memories that doubled as nightmares. Or there was not really falling asleep at all. The latter was more often the case for Will since returning to England. His thoughts would turn in his head for hours, eating moonlight and growing the shadows under his eyes.

Originally he traded his medal for a bottle of wine in an exhausted effort to finally stop staring at it and thinking about the Somme. He did the same with his new medal, for reaching the 2nd. But, he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of that one too because of its ties to Tom. He wondered if Tom’s medal kept him awake too.

So he asked, “Do you still have your medal?”

Tom shifted in his arms. “The one for saving a fellow soldier from certain death blah blah blah? Yes, it’s...it’s in a muddy sock at the back of a drawer. I think I know why you pawned yours off now.”

“You don’t want it anymore.” It wasn’t a question.

“No. It all just seems so,” he lifted a hand to gesture indiscriminately in the air. “Pointless. Like, our lives, the mission. Pointless to the war. But it’s not pointless to _me_. I could have died, I almost died. And you would have had to just keep going anyway like it didn’t matter. And you almost died too, and the attack would have carried on like you didn’t matter either. And the medal is supposed to say ‘you mattered,’ but it doesn’t.”

Will moved closer, hooking his chin slightly over Tom’s shoulder and bringing their cheeks together. He moved one of his hands up to reach Tom’s face and smooth his fingers down the line of Tom’s jaw. He repeated the motion, in a sort of comforting gesture.

“You lived. We both lived. And you _do_ matter. We don’t have to care about the rest of it. We’re home now.”

Home. _We’re_ home. The implications made Tom’s breath hitch over the love swelling up in his chest. Instead of expressing it verbally, he reached his own hand back to Will’s face and trailed his fingers down the line of what felt like Will’s cheek. He’d stared at it often enough that he recognized it by touch. And he repeated the same soothing motion, as if to say, “You matter to me, too. My home is with you.”

They laid there for a few minutes, silence only broken by the soft sound of their breathing, which seemed to sync up as if they had transformed into one entity. Connected as they were physically and through experience.

“I traded my medal because looking at it reminded me of the Somme. And I didn’t want to remember it.”

“I wouldn’t either,” Tom replied. “Just from what you’ve told me.”

“There’s another thing I don’t want to remember.”

Tom waited quietly, inviting Will to unload part of the weight Will had been carrying since Ecoust. He invited him with the space to talk, with fingers on Will’s cheek, and with the safety of a room so far removed from the war that it couldn’t possibly touch them here.

Part of Will rejected the vulnerability, the little boy whose parents were cold, who learned to stay quiet. And another part, a bigger part now, wanted to lean into it. To be more like Tom because life was suffering but it was also healing, if you let it.

“After leaving you, the worst part wasn’t the sniper, it was the river. The Huns, they-,” He swallowed thickly. “They turned the town into rubble, and killed the civilians. When I went down the river, I saw them, the civilians. They were thrown into the river like rubbish, and the current brought them downstream to a fallen tree. There were so many that they got stuck and it created a sort of dam.”

Will paused to take a few measured breaths and steady himself before continuing. He focused on all the points of contact he had with Tom too.

“There wasn’t a way around, it- they were blocking the whole river, and the bank was too steep to climb out on my own. I had to _use_ them to get out.”

Will’s voice shook as he spoke, and he couldn’t hold back the tears pricking his eyes anymore. His chest burned like it did back at the river and he felt a shiver run through his body as he moved back a bit to press his forehead hard into the space between Tom’s shoulder blades.

Tom wanted to comfort him, but he wasn’t sure how, wasn’t sure if Will needed to hide or if he just wasn’t used to crying in front of others. So Tom just rubbed his thumb along the knuckles of Will’s hand still clasped to his heart.

“They were bloated and cold, and I tried not to think about it, but I could see their faces.” His voice was hushed, his breaths shuddering, on the brink of sobs. He swallowed hard, then continued. “When I made it out, I remember tripping, and when I hit the ground I was paralyzed. I couldn’t breathe, I was gasping and I cried. I couldn’t stop thinking about the town, and the girl with the baby, and how I was probably too late for the 2nd, and- and that you might have bled out on the way to the aid post.” His eyes turned downward at the memory, unable to meet Tom’s gaze. “Or the convoy was ambushed,” he continued. “Or anything, everything terrible. I wanted to die, Tom. I wanted to die, but I was still alive, and I was alone, and I could still smell the bodies in the water.”

A few tears escaped Tom’s own eyes in sympathy, but he stayed strong for Will, so he could have this release for once. He wiped at his eyes and then rolled over so that he could face Will.

While moving, Will had covered his face with his hands, so Tom gently moved them and carefully wiped away some of the tears he could see shining on Will’s cheeks in the moonlight. “Hey,” he said. “You’re not alone now.”

Will kept his eyes shut tight and didn’t respond.

“What happened next? How did you get up?”

Will sniffed hard and continued. “There’s a reason I didn’t let myself cry during the war. I was afraid that if I let myself break down, that I’d never stop. I’d seen it happen to other soldiers, especially after the Somme. It wasn’t safe.”

“It’s safe now,” Tom said. “God knows I cry all the bloody time, so I can tell you it helps. And I’m here, I won’t let you stay down.”

Will finally opened his eyes and met Tom’s gaze. He saw the determination and the protectiveness there. “You’ve got me.”

“I’ve got you.” Tom smiled.

Strengthened by the words, Will managed to finish his story. “So, I heard this faint singing. A man’s voice, but it sounded like an angel. It was so out of place, I couldn’t figure out if I actually had died or if I’d just gone fully mad.” 

Tom was silent, listening. 

“It pulled me up and I walked towards it. There was a soldier singing to a battalion in the woods, and it was beautiful. I hadn’t heard music since the last time I was on leave. They were the 2nd, a company who hadn’t gone over yet. And I- I got my strength back, I wasn’t too late. And...you know the rest.”

By the time he’d finished, Will’s breathing had mostly settled and his voice was steady again. He felt empty rather than gutted. Like this was a release. He was exhausted, but a pressure in his chest had lifted.

What remained was a worry that was still running through his head from earlier. When they thought about kids. He thought about Tom leaving that potential future behind, leaving any normal potential future behind. For Will.

He was quiet for a few minutes, turning it over in his head while they looked at each other, faces close. Then, “After everything we’ve been through, do you really want to drop everything for me?” _Am I worth that_ , he didn’t say.

Tom frowned and Will traced the line of the furrow between his brows. “What am I dropping?”

“A normal life, kids, a relationship that doesn’t have to be a secret.”

Tom’s frown deepened. “I’m not dropping anything, you’re already everything to me.”

Will’s heart stuttered in his chest while Tom continued.

“I don’t care if it has to be a secret, I don’t care that we can’t tell people, I just want to be with you.”

Will wanted to argue, to say that Tom could be satisfied right now, but what about in a year? In five years? Ten? But, they were both making a choice here, and he wanted to respect that Tom made his. So he kissed him, to let him know that he heard him, that he accepted this.

“Besides,” Tom switched to a lighter tone. “I didn’t ever have a chance at a normal life. I’m a homosexual, and I’d rather go back to the army with a bum leg than ever kiss a girl.”

Their eyes met and the two dissolved into a series of giggles, only half muffled by hands and a blanket playfully shoved into the other’s face.

Once their laughs had faded out into soft smiles, Tom asked, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you have a chance, like, with a girl?”

Will nodded, “Yes, but I think you’re it for me. I can’t imagine finding someone else after meeting you.” He finished the sentence while brushing hair out of Tom’s face and tucking it behind his ear. It wasn’t long enough to stay, but that was fine. It let Will repeat the action as many times as he wanted.

Tom sighed, but it was a contented one caught on the edge of a smile. They’d both made their choice. And it wasn’t really a choice at all. Since their first meeting, nothing could have changed the course they were set on.

The rest of their conversation that night was light, with Tom falling asleep in the middle of a story about the time he broke his arm after falling out of a tree in the orchard. Will followed him into sleep shortly after, finally at peace in his head.

* * *

Will woke up first, without the lingering anxiety of a nightmare on his mind. That restfulness combined with the warmth of Tom wrapped around him like a particularly large octopus, was so unusual that Will was convinced he was dreaming.

The acrid taste of morning breath in his mouth and a pressure in his bladder broke the illusion. But that simply made it better, because this was  _ real _ . He lifted his head and looked down to where Tom’s head was resting on his chest. Will wanted to run a hand through his hair, but he didn’t want to wake him. It had probably been a while since Tom slept as deeply as this too.

Will waited as long as he could, then slowly extricated himself from Tom’s arms. Tom’s only reaction was some mumbling before flopping over onto his back and remaining asleep. Will smiled fondly at him one more time before quietly padding to the door and letting himself out of the room.

He was facing the door while inching it shut, so he didn’t notice Judith until he turned around and gasped at her appearance in the hall. Will felt his face pale as he wondered how he could possibly explain why he’d just walked out of her son’s bedroom looking sleep-rumpled.

“M-Mrs. Blake I- it’s not-”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand and stepped closer. “Will, I  _ know _ . It’s okay.”

That only added confusion to Will’s panic, as he wondered how obvious they’d been, how many others could come to the conclusion. “Why? But how-”

Judith took Will’s hands in her own and tried to calm him. “Call it mother’s intuition. I knew just by the way Tom talked about you, okay? Someone else probably wouldn’t know. You’re a good person and I trust you, I know you’re not going to break his heart. I can see it whenever you talk to him. You boys don’t have to hide it here. But please,” she squeezed his hands. “ _ Please _ promise me you’ll be careful. Not everyone will understand, and I don’t want you two to get hurt.”

Will’s voice faltered so he cleared his throat and tried again. “I promise,” he nodded. There were other things he wanted to ask, to say, but it wasn’t the right time.

She pulled him into a hug, tight with maternal protectiveness and affection, something that Will hadn’t felt since he was a young boy. He returned the hug hard, and ignored the stinging in his eyes when they broke apart and Judith went downstairs and Will made it to the bathroom.

He did his business and went back to Tom’s room, not worried this time about being seen. It was allowed.

Tom was exactly as he’d left him, and Will tried to get back in the bed as carefully as he left it. This time Tom woke to the movement and rolled back on top of him, closing a gentle fist around Will’s sleep shirt to hold him there.

“Where’d you go?” he mumbled out.

“The loo.”

Something in his voice must have sounded off because Tom lifted his head to squint at Will’s face. “Whatsit?”

“Um,” Will swallowed, “Your mother knows about us and is okay with it?”

“Oh.” Tom laid his head back down and Will could pinpoint the exact moment the words actually registered because his entire body froze before he sat up and looked properly awake. “Wait, she  _ what _ ?”

Will drummed his fingers on his leg and clarified. “I ran into her in the hallway, and she told me she’d known since you came home and she just wanted us to be careful but that we don’t have to hide here anymore.”

Tom was silent for a few minutes, processing this with his face pinched up. Slowly, he relaxed and laid back down, worming his way back around Will. “Huh. That’s… surprisingly good news.”

“Yes, it is.” Both surprising  _ and _ good. “Good morning.”

“Good fucking morning,” Tom replied.

* * *

They took their time getting ready for the day, and it paralleled the way they got ready for bed. All knocking elbows and staying within reach. Will didn’t feel it was appropriate to move his suitcase into Tom’s room just yet, but they changed together all the same. Small steps.

Breakfast could have been awkward, but it wasn’t. Judith didn’t act any different than before, she just ordered them around the kitchen like she promised she would yesterday.

Will was hesitant to help cook, worried he’d drop something or mess it up with his injured hand. But one stern look from Judith was all it took for him to try anyway. He needed to learn, the doctor said, to relearn how to do things with less dexterity. He’d mostly avoided trying when he could because that was easier than facing mistakes head on.

He could almost hear his sister in his head telling him to stop being so dramatic because perfection wasn’t real. So he tried to channel her energy into the task and a short while later Judith, Tom, and Will were sitting around the table and eating breakfast.

They talked about plans for the day, who would muck the horse’s stall, who would feed the chickens, who would do the laundry. It was blissfully mundane. Will basked in it. He could be quite comfortable living here, being a part of this family. The only thing missing was Tom’s brother.

And it was while drying the dishes that Tom handed to him that Will realized he no longer felt on edge. No longer felt the anticipation of a shelling or a Captain calling him into battle at a moment’s notice. He was relaxed. And surely there would be instances when anxiety sprung up again, especially with reminders of the war. But he was confident he would have more days where he didn’t feel haunted than not.

* * *

A week and some time later found Will and Tom out in the cherry tree orchard. They’d taken to a routine of spending the afternoons with Will reading against a tree and Tom playing with Myrtle, watching the clouds, or napping.

The books Will had were all packed from his sister’s house. Ones he’d acquired over the years but didn’t bring to the military out of fear of having them ruined.

He was currently reading a favorite of his, a book of poetry by Walt Whitman called ‘Leaves of Grass.’ Whitman was his favorite poet and he found a kinship within the self-exploration and the way Whitman’s poetry explored love for women and men both. It was refreshing and validating in a way that Scho hadn’t encountered yet when society seemed to place people in one of two binary identities. 

Tom didn’t seem interested in poetry until Will let it slip that he wrote his own here and there.

“Oh come on, you  _ have _ to show me now.” Tom was laying with his feet by Will’s side, and his head propped up on his crossed arms.

Will didn’t give in to the pleading. “I don’t  _ have _ to, but I might show you in the future when I improve.”

Tom spluttered out, “When you impro- Will! Your letters to me were basically poetry, and you were in the middle of a warzone! And you’re telling me that your actual poems aren’t good enough?”

Will shrugged and flipped to the next page in his book.

Tom tsked and playfully bumped one of his feet into Will’s hip. “Would you at least read me something from that book, then?”

Will finally looked at him and a smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. “If you wanted to hear my voice say something beautiful, you could have just asked.”

“Did I not just ask?” Despite the teasing tone, there was a spark of something excited in his eyes.

There was one poem that came to Will’s mind, one that he was always reminded of when he looked at Tom or thought about him in all the nights they were separated. He couldn’t put into words just how much he associated the poem with his love for Tom, so the poem itself would have to do.

From memory, he recited the lines, watching Tom’s face:

> _ Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you, _
> 
> _ You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,) _
> 
> _ I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you, _
> 
> _ All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured, _
> 
> _ You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me, _
> 
> _ I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only, _
> 
> _ You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return, _
> 
> _ I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone, _
> 
> _ I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again, _
> 
> _ I am to see to it that I do not lose you. _

Tom was entranced by the words and by the way Will spoke them. He sat up after the first couple lines, giving his undivided attention to Will. With the words brought memories of different moments in time spent with him.

Especially the final part of the poem, which brought to mind images of himself rereading Will’s letters at night, hoping that desire alone was strong enough to bring into existence the future where they both lived and they met again. And there they were, sharing gazes and trading stories for poems. Under the cherry trees which weren’t blossoming anymore, but Tom just knew Will would be there next spring to see it. He had no doubts, and he was so very much in love.

“I love you,” Tom said. He didn’t know why it took so long to say anymore. It had to be said, and it had to be said a million times, and he felt maybe the way Will recited the poem was the first declaration anyway.

Will’s mouth dropped open in shock as his eyes widened, before his cheeks flushed and he closed the book and set it somewhere on the grass next to him without breaking eye contact with Tom. His shock turned to awe and then into something tender and private, just for Tom.

Will started shifting forward and Tom did the same, meeting him halfway. Now smiling, Will framed Tom’s face with his hands and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Then he pulled back just enough to see Tom’s face and say, “I love you too.”

The resulting smile from Tom was bright like the sun, unguarded and unashamed. He was beautiful, Will thought. 

Their following kisses were broken by too wide smiles, but the feeling was no less content, no less warm for it. They’d stop only to laugh and whisper “I love you’s” into the inches between their faces, to bask in the warmth of the phrase and know that nothing left was hidden from the other.

The war wasn’t over, but it was over for _them_. They were safe. They were home.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Will reads is To A Stranger by Walt Whitman! I didn't want to get too detailed in why it meant so much to him with Tom because I wanted you guys to read it and interpret it yourself! And other credit goes to Wally for the line about Will being everything for Tom, it really helped me when I was stuck with finishing that scene!
> 
> If you liked this story, then you'll love [Making Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24218611) by owlinaminor! I read that when I was ready to write the final scenes in this story, and it really hit me with a lot of the same vibes I was going for! It's an incredible fic and I highly recommend reading it!
> 
> Thank you so much if you read through this entire story and left kudos, comments, or bookmarks! I'm really happy to have been able to share this story with this lovely little fandom!
> 
> (This is also the end of the story for some people, part 3 is an nsfw epilogue for the adult crowd!)
> 
> You can talk to me about it on my twitter [LCpl_blakefield](https://twitter.com/LCpl_blakefield), I'm always looking for more friends there!

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a line pulled from the song Still Breathing by Green Day, totally don't listen to that song and think about blakefield!


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